On the Tragic Passing of the Honourable Mr Dotcom
by RobinRocks
Summary: The internet goes down, Sherlock panics and John fetches some peas from the freezer. For AutumnDynasty.


**AutumnDynasty**, stuck in Germany at present, asked for a drabble to cheer her up. As fitting as it would have been to write something _Hetalia_, given her current whereabouts, I decided to take a crack at the recent modern-day-set BBC three-parter _Sherlock_ instead.

You may be the judge(s) of just how well that went. XD

As it stands, I didn't win another internet from her. Just a few dotcoms, apparently. Which is rather fitting, I suppose.

On the Tragic Passing of the Honourable Mr Dotcom

"The internet is down," says Sherlock.

"Mm," says John, not looking up from _The Daily Mail_.

"You shouldn't read that rubbish," says Sherlock.

"Better than relying on Yahoo! or MSN," says John, turning the page. He glances up over the edge of the paper at Sherlock, watching him frantically fiddling with his iPhone, the sweat practically beading on his pale face. "Case in point."

Sherlock throws the iPhone at the sofa and stomps off into the next room.

"It must be the router," he says distractedly. John hears the clattering of rubber-coated wires against each other, the sound of various little plastic boxes hitting the floor. "Reconnecting it should do the trick – or maybe one of the wires is just loose or something..."

John closes his paper and carefully folds it, laying it over the arm of the faded floral-print armchair and rising. In his curiosity he quite forgets which of his legs is supposed to have the limp and thus abandons it, going to the door with the stride of a man who has no need of a walking stick and leaning against the frame.

Sherlock is on his hands and knees under the desk on which the desktop computer sits, pulling out every wire he can find and jamming it back into its socket aggressively, muttering to himself all the while.

"Did you try the laptop?" John asks.

"The _internet_ is down, John," Sherlock snaps, "not the _computer_."

"I thought the _iPhone_ was the thing without a connection," John sighs, scratching at his head. "Look, can't you just... I don't know, go without the internet for ten minutes? Perhaps it's busy."

"Busy," Sherlock bites out, three wires held between his teeth, "with the media-saturated youth of today changing their Facebook statuses to better reflect the banality of their assumed self-importance."

"Isn't that just what _you_ want to do?" John sighs, only half-teasing.

"This isn't just my problem! What about that blog of yours?"

"It can wait – as can your obsessive-compulsive email-checking."

"But I can't work like this!" Sherlock explodes, perhaps meaning to come up and whirl around to glare at John to better heighten his anger – however, he forgets that the desk is there and bangs his head rather audibly, cursing and doubling up with his hands pressed to the back of his skull.

John sighs and goes to the kitchen to fetch some ice – perhaps a bag of frozen peas or something. From his spot crouched before the fridge-freezer, perusing its contents, he can hear Sherlock bemoaning his predicament, something colourful and despairing as though he's in the very throes of _bereavement_.

It can't be healthy to rely on modern technology quite this much, John thinks, reaching for the bag of peas he had first thought of. He wonders how Sherlock survived as a child without the vast flow of knowledge available at his fingertips as it is now – and he shudders to think what might have become of this man in another lifetime, a mind like his transcended to a different time period, perhaps when sepia-touched black-and-white photographs were the very height of technology...

As John makes his way back through the living room, the iPhone chirps. It has come back to life – and there, to prove it, is the little 'Received Mail' icon. Sherlock obviously hears it, for he comes thundering past John and snatches up the iPhone as though it's a lost limb, immediately starting in on the touch-screen with a furious pace like he's trying to make up for lost time.

_Well_, thinks John, standing in the middle of the living room holding a bag of frozen peas (and because he _is_ a doctor, after all), _good thing the patient – both patients – have made a full recovery._

Which doesn't stop him from snatching up his paper and going back to his previous positively-_Victorian_ occupation – right after the throwing the bag of peas at the back of Sherlock's head.

* * *

This makes my fourth 'Sherlock Holmes' fic and my third 'Sherlock Holmes' fandom, having already written for the original books and the 2009 Guy Ritchie movie. I just need to write for _Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century _and _Basil the Great Mouse Detective _and I'll be golden. XD


End file.
